Nights Like These
by thechampionsmistress
Summary: In the dresser, the second drawer from the left, I find a change of clothes: pajama pants and a shirt. Taking off my top, I put it on the dresser and slide my arms through the over-sized holes in the button up shirt she keeps for me. As I slide off my slackers, I hear stirring. I turn to see that it's slight at first, but suddenly it grows into violent shakes.


Author's Note: I'm new to this whole let-other-people-read-my-stuff thing, so if you judge me, do so lightly. I figured I'd introduce myself as a writer with this piece because it was the first one I wrote for this particular fandom. (also posted on tumblr).

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the order of the words.

* * *

Days like these made me question my profession. The case had gone from bad to worse where it stayed for nearly two weeks before hitting rock bottom, leaving everyone in the department shaken. Jane was reclusive. Frankie opted to stay at headquarters. Even Korsak and Frost had declined to taunt each other, being unnaturally helpful: Korsak handed Frost his handkerchief on multiple occasions; Frost gently explained references his older counterpart did not understand. Anything else seemed inappropriate.

But I missed their banter, and Frankie's eagerness to excel and Jane's mockery of each of them, even myself. I missed it all, especially earlier that morning when we were led to the final body. It had been the final straw that broke everyone's sheltered wall that kept out the pain of the job and held in the humanity we all need to continue, although this time that would be difficult. Even knowing they had received justice was little constellation when I closed the last of seven bags containing the young girls that lined the tables in the morgue. They hadn't stood a chance.

Flipping the light switch off, I headed down the barren hallway to the elevator, which I rode in silence to the ground floor. The emptiness was haunting, most of the officers rushing home to hold their wives, some hung back to gather themselves. The people I cared about, I knew, were gone. Korsak was the first to leave, Frost following suit shortly after. Jane lingered for longer than most, but by now I knew where she would be.

As I started my car, the thoughts refused the leave me. I could still see Korsak, the first to arrive, falling to his knees. Frost, aware the sight might be hard on his stomach, had been slow walking from the car but upon seeing the sergeant, quickened his pace and arrived in time to see the first of many tears run down his friend's aged face. I shut my eyes, trying to not think of the girl hanging from the billboard but instead I found the image of Jane standing there on the ground, paralyzed by the sight seared in my mind.

Shaking my head, I shifted into drive and punched on the gas. It was going to be one of those nights.

Unlocking the door to Jane's apartment, I was met by her familiar scent. On any other night, I would have taken it for granted, blown it off as normality, but not tonight. Tonight, I breathed it in, willing it to fill my lungs.

I took a few steps into the living room and placed my purse on the table by the couch. Reaching for the lamp, the light shown on a scene I had regretfully seen before. The vase on the coffee table was on its side, chipped, with water leaking onto the floor, the flowers scattered on the wooden surface. A shoe—the likely culprit—was sitting a few feet away. The stool by the bar leaned against the wall threatening to fall to the ground.

Pulling my shoulders back, already feeling defeated by the night to come, I walked through the hallway, avoiding the second shoe I knew was under the light switch next to the bathroom door. When I got to her door, I noticed a soft, dim light shining from the floor. She didn't make a sound, but I knew she was still awake, thinking as she did far too much.

The knob felt cold as I wrapped my hand around it. The door opened silently, but her eyes must have caught the movement because I could hear the clink of the gun moving from her night stand to her hand before the door left the frame. Jane spooked is rare and it is dangerous.

"It's just me," I proclaimed quickly as I opened the door, revealing my identity. I tried not to notice, but her tense muscles loosened as she saw, and believed, that it was me. She slowly released the metal trigger, placing her protection back on the stand beside her, and laid back down, her face toward the wall, her back to me.

"May I," I asked, gesturing the empty space beside her as though she could see me. But we had done this so many times, I suppose in a way she could. The words hung in the air momentarily before Jane threw her arm back. Finding the comforter, she flipped it down as best she could effectively giving me the permission I only had on nights like these. Climbing up to lay beside her, I settled into the side that, while it had seen others, was mine.

The ceiling fan twirled, circling the air around us but we were silent. Her mind was still at the intersection, staring at the billboard, defenseless. My thoughts were on her. They always were. I had spent many nights, lying just like this in my own bed questioning why. Why I spent every waking hour concerned that she safe and happy. Why I was willing to go against the science I base my life on if it endangered her or my relationship with her. But I suppose I know why.

The answer was in the way Jane sat during an investigation, one leg hiked up on the back of the chair, lost in thought. It was in the way she hung her head and grinned when I complimented her, completely unaware of how fruitless my words were—none were good enough. It was in the soft touch of her rugged hands and the soothing sound of her scuffed voice. It was the way I was powerless to resist her, the fact that I wouldn't resist if given the choice.

I was controlled by her smile and captivated by her touch and as she lay next to me I finally understood: that was more powerful, more real, and truer than any equation or theorem.

Looking over, I see her curled around her pillow, her breathing calmed. I could tell by her steadiness that she had fallen asleep, even if it was only momentarily. I took this opportunity to change out of clothes I am sure smell perpetually like the morgue. Such a scent was probably not what Jane wanted to be consumed with. Gently sliding to the edge of the mattress, I was cautious to not wake her. Sleep would be hard to come by for her.

In the dresser, the second drawer from the left, I find a change of clothes: pajama pants and a shirt. Taking off my top, I put it on the dresser and slide my arms through the oversized holes in the button up shirt she keeps for me. As I slide off my slackers, I hear stirring. I turn to see that it's slight at first, but suddenly it grows into violent shakes.

"Maura!" Jane jolted up, furiously patting the bed where I was supposed to be. I had only been gone a moment but she had noticed. I quickly run back to her, climbing on the bed and seizing her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me believe that I was there. "I'm here—right here."

"You're okay?" Her breath was labored and deep, trembling under my hands, cracking the walls I attempted to build around my emotions, her pain—us. She studied my face for a moment and I dared myself to smile, giving the illusion that all was well.

"I'm fine. You're safe. We're okay."

"You're okay," she repeated, more a statement than before, her eyes not leaving mine, refusing to blink as though I would disappear if she stopped seeing me for a moment.

"Yes, I am. Go back to sleep." She laid back down, reluctantly and with more help from me than her own will power.

"Stay," she swallows. Her voice was grumbled and low, but stained with a vulnerability that she only showed to me. I hesitated to call it a weakness, because she was strong enough to compose herself when everyone else was watching and expecting her to melt to the ground. I returned her cheeks to the safety of my hands, wiping the forming tears, caressing her furrowed skin.

"I wouldn't leave you."

She blinked for the first time since she woke as I moved hair off her neck revealing a scar and I stopped. Until the day that scalpel penetrated my skin, I could only theorize how she felt, being targeted, hunted for slaughter. But I now had my own matching reminder. She felt my gaze and covered it with her hand, only to reveal more ways she was haunted. Seeing it was like a scalpel to my heart, a knee to my stomach. Hoyt may be dead but that didn't mean serial killers went extinct or innocent people were no longer held hostage and tortured. And each time a case like that was passed on to our team, she and I ended up here, with worn scars and a cracked vase.

I took her hand in mine, running the tips of my fingers along the peaks of her fear.

"Maura," she began, barely whispering aware of my next action, but stumbling to a halt when I leaned down and kissed the back of her hand. I lingered there for a moment, feeling the release of her bent up tension before resting my lips on the side of her neck, her tears trailing down to my cheeks.

On nights like there I wasn't just her best friend. I was her haven, her shelter, the touch that broke down her wall and held her together. On nights like these, I was allowed to do things like that.

Before I could back away, I felt her grab my arm, pulling it over her body, hiding herself in my embrace. She shook from the tears streaming down her face, but I held her steady. I knew that this was the first of many nightmares she would have not only tonight, but for the next several weeks. I knew tomorrow when she walked into the station she would smile and act as though she was immune to the world and its cruelties. She would shield herself until she was alone, until I came to find her, to save her.

However, in a way, I could argue that I needed these nights more than she did. Her security came from being held, but mine came from holding her. To feel her steady breathing against my torso, her heart beating against my arm, to know that in that moment she was in no danger was a rare peace and I cherished it.

"I love you, Maura," she whispered as she intertwined her fingers with mine, clinching tightly to my hand. I grinned into her hair, my heart fluttering as I pulled her closer to me, closer than I can ever remember holding her. But I can't deny the way she say it: as though she might never have the opportunity again. After the case we had and the horror we saw, it was not farfetched to think such a thought. It was the hazard of the job.

Words like that, spoken in times like there, meant more. Perhaps because of the honesty that accompanied them. Or perhaps because I could admit the joy they brought me. Whatever the reason, on nights like these I was allowed to say: "I love you, too."


End file.
